Chapter Seven

  The dream had been vivid and hadn’t felt like dreaming at all. This, Greer told herself, is why she agreed to lay back down when Chris suggested it. Her eyes were heavy, her limbs weighted down with an brand of exhaustion that sleep hadn’t managed to touch, and she fell back onto the mattress reluctantly. As she lay down, the worn-out mattress compressed, molding to the contours of her tired body, and she curled up in the nest of warmth left by his body. He sat next to her, watching her face. She reached for his hand.

  “I’ll keep watch,” he promised before she could voice her request.

  She nodded drowsily and closed her eyes, dropping into a dreamless sleep almost instantly, her hand locked in his. When she roused herself an hour or two later, the early morning sunlight peeked through the eastern windows, painting streaks of cool light across the wooden floor, and the spot next to her was empty.

  She sat up, yawning and rubbing her face. Her crusty socks lay abandoned beside the mattress. As she gingerly slid them over her feet, a grimace crossed her face at the cold dampness seeping through. She grabbed her sneakers and shoved her feet inside them, her eyes darting around the room as her fingers flew over the laces in practiced quick motions. Chris had been busy while she napped.

  Evidence of his bustling activity during her nap was strewn all around. The kitchen table was crowded with her grandmother’s guns, each gleaming dully in the light. The sharp scent of cleaning oil mingled with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Pushing herself up, she walked over to the coffee pot nestled in the kitchen corner, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath her feet. She poured herself a cup and studied the guns as she sipped the hot liquid. She’d only seen her grandmother use the rifle once, and the other guns were a mystery to her. The gun safe had always been locked in her youth, so she’d never had an opportunity to see the others that had been squirreled away inside. Besides the rifle, there was an old-fashioned-looking shotgun with a wooden handle and twin gray barrels and an even older-looking revolver sporting an ivory handle inlaid with gold.

  She looked around the kitchen, but Chris was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’d he go?” she asked the silent house. Outside, the early morning breeze ruffled the roses, their leaves hissing, but that felt less like a response and more like an admonishment.

  “Chris?” she called, holding her mug tightly between her two hands.

  A sudden thump echoed from the floor above, and she looked up at the ceiling, wondering what he was doing upstairs. She fished a slice of bread from the half-collapsed bag on the counter and slathered it with jam from the already opened jar. Shoving her breakfast into her mouth, she made her way up the stairs, coffee in hand.

  “Chris?” she called around the food in her mouth, the word slightly muffled.

  “Up here!”

  His voice came from the open door of the attic, and her stomach dropped.

  Oh shit.

  She’d forgotten to close the door. In the chaos of yesterday, it hadn’t seemed like a priority, but now she had a witch hunter poking around in a witch’s workroom.

  She quickly scaled the remaining stairs, grimacing as her bruised knee protested. She ignored the mess of her grandmother’s room and clomped up the creaking attic stairs, swallowing the last bits of bread. The long wooden room was dim, with only the thin, pale light of morning leaking through the windows at either end.

  “What are you doing?” she asked when her head cleared the floor.

  “What is all this stuff?” he asked instead.

  Greer froze as she took in the sight before her.

  Books were piled on her grandmother’s workbench, dozens of them. She turned in a circle. Books filled the shelves. Big tomes and little notebooks, all shoved in next to each other, on top of each other, filling every available space.

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  He glanced at her from where he stood in front of the workbench, an open book in his hand. “What do you mean?”

  She rushed up the last of the steps and snatched the book out of his hands. He protested, but she ignored him as she read the page in front of her: a recipe for a headache balm. She flipped through the book in disbelief. Every page was painstakingly handwritten; the ink had long since faded to brown, and most pages had hand-drawn illustrations. She looked back up at him in wonder. “Where did you get this?”

  He pointed to the shelf behind him, looking utterly confused. “From the shelf,” he said.

  This was impossible. She pushed the book back into his hands. For an instant, it seemed to flicker in and out of existence, and she gasped, almost dropping it. Back in Chris’s hands, it solidified, and she stumbled backward, staring at the book. Then she looked around at the others. The closer she looked, she could see one or two of them flicker the same way, fading then re-solidifying.

  “What?” he asked from behind her. “You’re freaking me out.”

  She could only shake her head. “These weren’t here yesterday.” Then a thought occurred to her. Her eyes widened as she turned to face him. “Do you know what this means?”

  She could finally figure out what Kat had done to her.

  She hurriedly began inspecting the titles. “Have you found anything that looks like journals?” she asked, her fingers flying over the spines.

  “What kind of journals?”

  “My grandma’s.” She moved to the next shelf, impatience making her rush. “I need to find her journals from the years I lived with her.” She glanced back at him, realizing for the first time how out of place he looked in the attic. He had to hunch, even in the middle of the room, where the roof was at its highest. She grinned at him. A buoyant joy bubbled up within her. Maybe she wouldn’t have to grovel at another witch’s feet to rid herself of the curse after all.

  He caught her smile and grinned back at her like a giant, handsome idiot. “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  But as she opened her mouth to tell him how stupid he looked just then, the book in his hand dropped out of existence. He looked down at his now empty hand, confusion marring his brow.

  “Wha—”

  All around them, books began to blink away, first one, then two, then whole shelves at a time.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, dumbfounded. She caught a sudden whiff of rosemary in the pine-scented air, and she froze. Glass shattered downstairs, followed by a familiar inhuman scream, and the books started to flee the room by the dozens.

  Chris’s grip tightened around her wrist, urgently dragging her to the stairs.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed. With the creature downstairs, it was safer up in the attic. All they had to do was close the door.

  “We can’t stay here,” he said, pitching his voice low. “We’d be cornered.”

  “No,” she argued. “We’d be safe.”

  “We’d be trapped,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. At the bottom of the stairs, he quickly glanced into the hall, but they were alone. He stuck his head around the corner, making sure it wasn’t hiding in her grandmother’s bedroom. He needn’t have bothered; the sounds of the guns hitting the floor could be heard up the stairs.

  “Does that window open?” he whispered urgently.

  “What window?” she asked, shaking her head.

  Chris pointed to a tall window on the far wall of her grandmother’s bedroom. “We need to leave now,” he said urgently, grabbing Greer’s arm and pulling her from the attic. Her heart raced as she followed him, and she tripped over a loose blouse on the floor. By the time she righted herself, Chris was already at the window, unlatching it and grabbing the lower casing. It looked painted shut to Greer, but it was too late to argue with his plan of action. She peered over his shoulder at the yard spread out beneath them, a wave of vertigo making her stomach lurch. The grass below looked soft, but it was still a two-story jump. They’d be lucky if neither of them broke their legs.

  “Are you sure about this?” she whispered, watching him struggle with the sash.

  “What choice do we have?” he grunted, breaking the seal at last and lifting the window. The old wood squealed loudly as it shifted, and they both froze, listening for the monster downstairs. An eerie silence had swallowed the house whole, allowing the slightest creak and whisper to echo.

  That couldn’t be a good sign.

  “Hurry,” she urged, her heart pounding in her chest.

  The stairs creaked.

  Throwing caution to the wind, Chris gripped the sash tight and shouldered it up. It moved loosely, and she realized it was too old and that it would never hold itself up. They would have to hold it open. “Come on!” he shouted, gesturing for Greer. She threw one leg over the sill and sat down on the ledge.

  The creature burst into the room.

  Chris shouted. It ran toward them, ramming into Chris, who, in turn, knocked her off balance. Greer dropped from the ledge and crashed into the yard below. The impact of landing sent a shock up her leg, making her gasp. She rolled onto her back, grabbing for her knee. Chris landed beside her with a thump she could feel in her joints. Above them, the creature screamed from behind the closed window, hanging cockeyed in its frame.

  Chris jumped to his feet and grabbed her arm, dragging her up. “Move!” he shouted at the same time the monster broke the glass in the window. She struggled to her feet, and with Chris’s encouraging tug, they stumbled into motion, heading toward the tree line at the back of the house.

  ---

  Four calls and an hour later, the first of the would-be coven members arrived.

  A large red truck pulled into the wide gravel driveway, parking next to Simone’s beat-up old Chevy. A thick-set man stepped out and shielded his eyes against the glare of the early morning sun, scanning the empty plot of land. He was the kind of local Tad wouldn’t have thought twice about, with thick red-brown hair that curled at the top of his head before cascading down his neck in a classic mullet, likely sported well before the haircut had come back into style. Spotting Simone at the basement’s edge, he waved and made his way up the slope to where the house once stood, huffing as he went. Simone greeted him with a tense hug.

  “Thanks for coming, Kenny,” she said. “Especially on such short notice.”

  “Donna’s on her way,” he said, waving away her thanks. He glanced at the tree where Tad and Henry still sat and inadvertently caught Henry’s gaze. Kenny froze, then his lips tipped upward in a strained motion. “Henry.”

  Beside Tad, Henry inclined his head. “Kenny.”

  Kenny’s gaze traveled down to Henry’s leg, and his eyes widened. The sharp daggers of darkness were receding from view up into the ragged edge of the torn pants. He came closer. “Simone said you were caught up in this, but I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

  Henry said nothing, but his smile was razor sharp, and Kenny, seeking an exit from Henry’s bitter face, slid his gaze to Tad. “You must be the cop Simone mentioned.” He held out a thick hand. “I’m Ken Parks.”

  Tad stood up and shook the other man’s hand. “Tad Shannon.”

  Recognition flickered over Kenny’s face. “Ah,” he said. “Joe’s kid.”

  Tad nodded and shoved his hand into his jeans pockets, wondering if he’d ever get away from his dad’s reputation.

  Simone motioned Kenny closer to the lip of the basement with a quick flick of her hand. The big man gingerly inched toward the edge. The black roots that climbed over the edge were no longer delicate. They’d grown into tendrils as thick as Tad’s forearm, snaking their way out of the basement and across the blackened earth of the yard. They came right up to the double lines of salt Simone had run, and there they tangled, twisting back on themselves until a low wall of dark vegetation formed around the hole. Kenny’s face turned serious as he took in the festering darkness that broiled there and beneath the edge. “Jesus. You weren’t kidding.”

  Simone shook her head and crossed her arms. “The line is keeping it in check for now, but I don’t think it’ll hold much longer on its own.”

  “Is it such a bad thing?” Kenny ventured. “A Tree in our area? It could be good for us.”

  Simone’s face clouded, and Tad didn’t miss the look she shot at Henry. “The last time didn’t go so well,” she said darkly.

  Kenny glanced first at her, then at Henry. “What happened back then?” he asked quietly. “I know I wasn’t at school that night, but I remembered hearing my parents talking about it.”

  “What did they tell you?” she asked.

  “That’s the thing; they wouldn’t. And once it was over, they just pretended it never happened.”

  She sighed. “Suffice to say; Trees are a bad idea for Eliasburough.”

  “Why?” Tad asked, butting into the conversation.

  Simone glanced sharply at him. “Why what?”

  “Why are Trees such a bad idea? Henry said-”

  She laughed sharply. “Henry said?” She turned her attention to Henry. “What have you been filling his head with?”

  Henry scowled back. “The truth.”

  “Your brand of truth,” she accused. She let out a sharp breath and turned to Tad, her gaze steady but tired. “Trees grow in the Under, always near the biggest population centers. Wherever there’s people—lots of them—you’ll find a Tree.” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “Did he bother to tell you why?”

  Tad shook his head.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “Because the Trees eat magic,” she said bluntly. “It’s what they feed on. It’s what makes them bigger, stronger, and harder to root out. Witches have all but given up trying to dig out the trees in the cities. Most of them are too old, too dug in.”

  Tad considered what she’d just said. “So cities have less magic?”

  “That’s why a Tree out here is such a bad idea,” she said, shooting a glance at Kenny. “We don’t have a large enough population to support one. It’d eat up all the magic and then start bleeding us dry. You, me, the kid down at the gas station—everyone who lives here.”

  “What?” he asked. She’d lost him again. “Why would it go after regular people?”

  She laughed, a broken sound. “Haven’t you been paying attention? Because life is magic.”

  Tad furrowed his brow, trying to wrap his head around what Simone was saying. “Wait, you mean that the Tree would...kill people?”

  “Not outright,” Simone said, her voice heavy with meaning. “But it would sap them of their magic, their life force. Slowly, over time. Until they were nothing but empty shells.”

  His face paled. “So what do we do?”

  “We need to kill it before it can get a foothold,” Simone said firmly. She shot him a meaningful look. “Before it’s too late.”

  “How?” Tad asked, feeling a sense of unease creeping up on him.

  She turned to Kenny. “First things first, I could use your help on a Noseeum charm.”

  Kenny raised an eyebrow. “You expect trouble?”

  Simone ran a hand through her curls, making them stand on end. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  “Most of them are on the Council’s payroll these days,” Kenny pointed out.

  Lost, Tad turned to Henry with a questioning look. “Who are they talking about?” he asked quietly.

  “Witch hunters,” the older man said.

  The blood drained from Tad’s face. “There’s people out there that-” he didn’t even want to put it into words. The thought of a human hunting another made his stomach roll.

  “Don’t worry about it, kid,” Henry said. “There are still a few old-fashioned sects out there, but most of the so-called ‘hunters’,” Henry air quoted the word sarcastically, “are just goons for hire. The Council pays them to keep the riff-raff in line.”

  A second truck, a white one this time, pulled up the driveway and parked behind Kenny’s red truck, and they all watched as a woman got out of the big truck. Rail thin with immaculate pale hair that hovered around her head like a cloud, she walked up the drive with her thin lips pressed together, her tall rubber boots swimming around her jean-clad calves, looking like a general wading into battle.

  “Oh good,” Kenny said with quiet sarcasm. “You called Debbie.”

  Simone looked exhausted. “Of course I did,” she said. “We need all the help we can get.”

  “Dan’s watching the horses,” the other woman announced when she was near. “I’ve got the vet coming in an hour, so I hope this isn’t as bad as you made it out to be.” The woman nodded briskly to Kenny. “Kenneth.”

  “Deborah,” Kenny volleyed back. “So good of you to come.”

  Debbie turned to Simone. “So what are we dealing with?”

  Simone gestured at the pit behind her. Debbie peered over Simone’s shoulder, her face unreadable. Her lips thinned even further, and she nodded to herself and pulled a cell phone out of her back pocket. Her fingers flicked over the surface. “I’m sending you the address of a witch I met at last month’s Council meeting. She just moved up from Philly.” Debbie’s muddy green eyes flicked up from the screen. “She’s a coven witch.”

  Simone and Kenny exchanged a look, and Tad could see the hope written across their features. “Are they available to help?” Simone asked.

  Debbie shook her head, her white hair flouncing. “As far as I understand, it’s just her,” she clarified.

  Simone’s shoulders visibly deflated, and Debbie stuffed her phone back into her jeans. “I talked to her on the way over. She’ll help us set the circle up,” she said. “But she’s gonna need a ride.”

  “Why would she do that?” Henry asked.

  Debbie craned her neck around Kenny’s bulk and eyed Henry. “Fowler,” she acknowledged. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “You and me both,” he bit back.

  “Well,” she said, looking back at Simone. “This is a diverse party, isn’t it?” Before Simone could respond, the other woman was checking her phone again. “Hold on,” she said, holding one finger up and bringing the phone up to her ear. “This is Deborah,” she said as she turned away from them.

  Kenny looked at Tad and then at Simone, a weary expression on his face. “Go,” he said, gesturing them away with a flap of his hands. “Pick up that witch. Now that Debbie’s here, things are going to move fast.” As he spoke, a car pulled to a stop along the road, and a man and a woman got out.

  Still, Simone looked doubtful. “You sure?” She glanced at the other woman, who was now pacing the edge of the pit and talking animatedly on her phone. “Can you handle this?”

  Kenny made a face but nodded. “I’ve been handling Debbie Smithfield for more than a decade now. Go,” he said again. “Hopefully, that city witch can help.”

  Simone sent one last worrying glance at the basement and then dug in her pocket for her key. “Okay,” she said reluctantly. “We’ll be as fast as we can,” she said. She motioned to Tad and Henry. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve got a job to do.”

  Glad he didn’t have to stand around like an idiot anymore, Tad followed Simone and Henry to the truck. He watched as Simone stowed her gnarled magic root in the back and slammed the tailgate shut.

  “Are they gonna be okay?” Tad asked, glancing back at the gaping pit. The air above it shimmered like heat rising off blacktop.

  Henry laughed, then coughed. He was leaning against the open cab, taking long drags from a cigarette. He flicked the column of ash onto the dirt, then took another drag. He exhaled through his nose. “Let the witches handle it, kid.”

  “Jeb, Donna, and the others will be here any minute,” Simone said, her face tense. “They’ll add their own wards. It’ll be fine.” She moved around the truck and climbed into the driver’s seat. Tad followed suit and stuffed himself into the back of the cab. They waited for Henry to finish his cigarette.

  He fingered the seam of the seat in front of him. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he started, but she waved him away.

  “It’s fine,” she said.

  “I really am,” he insisted.

  Instead of looking at him, she rolled down the truck’s window and let the early afternoon breeze shuffle the curls framing her face. “I know.”

  “Why do you need a coven?” he asked her after a long moment.

  She eyed him in the rearview mirror. “Covens pool their magic. For big jobs like this, it’s the best way to fix things. Otherwise, you just have a bunch of witches standing around sending individual strands of magic into a problem. The magic is unfocused, and no one knows what they’re doing; it’s a mess. But with a coven, you can pool all your magic, and one person can do the fixing.”

  “If it’s such a good way to get things done, why don’t you already have a coven?”

  “Henry, get your ass in this truck,” she said, her fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the steering wheel.

  The older man ducked down, the stub end of his cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Keep your pants on,” he said. “I’m almost done.”

  “Henry,” she ground out.

  “Jesus,” he said, flicking away the rest of the cigarette. He maneuvered his length into the cab, passing the crutch back to Tad. “What crawled up your butt?”

  She started the truck and put it in reverse. “Covens are a lot of work to maintain,” she said to Tad. She turned in her seat, bracing one hand against the back of Henry’s seat while the other kept a tight grip on the wheel as she backed the truck out of the driveway. Outside, gravel crunched under the weight of the tires.

  “Everyone has to give a part of themselves all the time,” she continued. “It gets exhausting. It’d be even worse out here. Most covens are run by witches in bigger population areas. It’s easy to keep one running if everyone is in close proximity. Well, easier,” she amended. “No coven is easy.”

  “You really think this city witch will help?” Henry asked.

  She sighed and glanced at him. “Honestly? I don’t know what to think anymore.” She threw the truck into gear, and they sped down the road. Tad watched her. The line of her shoulders was tense, and she hunched over the wheel. “You shouldn’t have been able to hear that curse,” she admitted, gazing at Tad in the rearview mirror. “And I don’t understand how the curse and Tree are connected, but this is the best shot we’ve got right now.”

  “What if it doesn’t work?” Tad asked tentatively, half of him not wanting to know the answer.

  Her jaw tightened. “Then we’ll figure something out.”

  “We could talk to Michael,” Henry interjected. “He probably knows—”

  “No,” Simone said vehemently. “I won’t have that man anywhere near a circle.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” Henry argued. “He knows more about magic than most of you witches.”

  Simone glared at him. “He’s got books,” she clarified. “That’s it. He’s been nosing around us for over a decade now. I won’t give him the satisfaction.”

  “Who’s Michael?” Tad interjected.

  Henry glanced over his shoulder. “An old acquaintance,” he said.

  “He thinks he’s a historian,” Simone said.

  “Stop belittling him. ”

  “I’m not. He’s a pretentious asshat who thinks he knows everything about magic.”

  “Because only witches can understand magic?” Henry asked scathingly.

  “Jesus, I’m not having this argument right now! Why are you even here? Don’t you have something better to do than follow me around?”

  “Witches don’t have a monopoly on magic,” Henry said doggedly. “Other people should be able to use it too.”

  She glared at him. “And look where that got you.”

  “Fuck you.”

  The road beneath them had changed from dirt to pavement while they argued, and now they came to a stop light. Simone pulled the truck to a stop and sighed. “I don’t want to argue. I really don’t.”

  “Then don’t,” Henry sneered.

  She sighed. “Look, this isn’t the time or place,” her eyes flickered to Tad in the back. “We’ve got other shit to take care of.”

  ---

  Chris led Greer through the field. The tall, dry grass whispered against her bare legs; its edges sharp and brittle. Leftovers from the previous night’s rain clung to the leafy shoots, soaking Chris’s jeans as they ran through the grass. Her heart thundered as she struggled to keep pace behind him. The sound of breaking glass filled the morning air, and the monster screamed behind them, but she didn’t dare risk a glance at it, afraid that she’d miss a step and fall on her face.

  Her knee throbbed with every loping stride, and it was only the thought of what would happen if they were caught that kept her moving. She could hear Chris’s sharp inhalations of breath through his nose as they ran, as metered as a ticking clock.

  Ahead of them, the tall pines loomed, boughs lit by the mid-morning sun.

  “Come on,” Chris gulped. “Almost there.”

  They burst free of the field and into the woods, leaving the grass behind in favor of a thick bed of pine needles. It was the same path she’d taken every day when he had come to stay those summers so long ago, up the backside of his grandpa’s property to the tall yellow house at the top of the hill.

  To distract herself from the monster at their backs, she forced herself to focus on the little things: on every placement of her feet, on the way the needles covered the ground and seemed to shift under her as she ran, on the way the sharp smell tree sap filled the air with its pungent sweetness.

  Suddenly, Chris veered right to avoid crashing into one of the many boulders that littered the forest floor, and she almost fell on her face in an effort to keep up. Chris’s grip tightened around her fingers. The hill began to rise steeply as they approached his grandpa’s house, and she slipped on the needle-covered ground. The sunlight behind them cut through the trees, painting golden streaks on the tall, dark trunks. A stitch was forming in her side, and she pressed one palm against it, gasping for breath.

  Behind them, the creature screeched, and she risked a glance at it as it burst free from the field and started up the slope after them.

  “Hurry,” Chris called.

  Greer wasn’t sure she had any more hurry left in her, and she could only nod, even though she knew he couldn’t see her.

  Greer.

  The sound of her grandmother’s voice was so startling she stumbled and tripped, skidding on the pine needles—the fall ripping her fingers out of Chris’s grip.

  I know you’re there. Kat’s ghostly hiss trickled through the trees, raising goosebumps along the bare skin of Greer’s arms. I can feel you, child.

  Panic and nausea clawed their way up her throat, and she gagged in the pine needles, her lungs shaking. Chris turned and grabbed her hand, his eyes wide and worried. He helped her back to her feet, glancing back at the approaching creature. She retched, doubling over.

  “Keep going,” he growled through gritted teeth, yanking her up. Tension ran in rivets down his face like beads of sweat, and his gaze kept flicking toward the approaching beast.

  With a wordless cry, she pushed herself the rest of the way up, and together they scrambled up the side of the hill, winding through the trees like snakes. The ache in her knee grew, forcing her into a bounding limp. Thankfully, the climb was a sprint and not a marathon. Soon enough, she could see the outline of his house through the trees, the yellow siding as bright as a school bus. She felt a wave of relief wash over her. Ignoring the pain in her legs and the deepening stitch in her side, she forced herself forward.

  Almost there.

  Suddenly, a gunshot cracked through the morning air. She threw herself to the ground, flattening herself against the moss and pine needles. A second shot ripped through the trees, and Chris crouched, clapping his hands over his ears.

  “Get in the damn house!” a man’s voice shouted urgently.

  Chris stood up and grabbed Greer’s hand, and together they burst out of the trees into the yard. They sprinted across the grass to the small back porch, where Wilhelm Mueller stood braced against one of the rickety supports, a rifle in his gnarled hands. He was barefoot and wearing only a stained undershirt and a rumpled pair of canvas utility pants. As she watched, he sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger. The gun was deafeningly loud and jerked upward, almost jumping out of the old man’s grip. Chris urged her up the stairs and threw open the screen door, running inside and dragging her with him. Behind them, Wilhelm cycled the rifle’s action, prepping for a fourth shot, but no creature followed them out of the trees. Still, the old man waited a minute longer. Chris yanked down a second rifle that was mounted on the wall and strode outside to stand beside his grandfather. He stood at the ready, watching the treeline with sharp eyes.

  Alone in the dim kitchen, Greer cautiously retreated from the open door, unable to take her eyes off the scene outside. She jolted when her back collided unexpectedly against the hard edge of a table. Startled, her wide eyes momentarily darted away from the door as she glanced behind her.

  The kitchen table behind her, with its chipped laminate surface and coffee ring stains, was overflowing with unwashed plates and empty Amazon boxes. Her gaze drifted from the table to the rest of the small square room, taking in the armies of unwashed cups, wads of empty grocery bags, and stacks of unopened mail that littered every available surface. Her nose twitched. A sweet, sickly smell of decay hung in the air - the unmistakable signature of a rotting banana hidden somewhere among the clutter.

  Out on the porch, Chris brought his rifle up and slowly descended the steps, advancing toward the trees, drawing her attention away from the mess. Her stomach lurched, and she dashed toward the door, watching worriedly through the screen as Chris crossed the yard. He melted into the trees, and the old man, still propped up against the porch pillar, brought his gun up, watching carefully.

  A second later, Chris reappeared, his gun dangling from one hand. His face said it all, and Greer breathed a sigh of relief, leaning against the door. Out on the porch, Wilhelm turned, limping on his bad leg, and glared at her.

  “Out of the way, girl.”

  She moved out of his way, bumping into the table a second time and jostling the dishes there. Wilhelm limped through the door, using the door frame to support his weight, before exchanging his rifle for the long-handled cane that leaned on the other side of the wall. Chris followed him inside a moment later, hanging his own rifle back on the wall hooks.

  The old man pierced him with a sharp glare. “What were you two idiots doing running up here with that thing on your heels?” he asked, settling himself in one of the chairs that surrounded the table. He avoided looking at Greer, and she shifted from foot to foot uneasily.

  Chris looked at Greer guiltily.

  “Oh, come off it,” Wilhelm huffed. “I know where you’ve been, boy. Ain’t no other place you could’ve spent the night.” He glanced at Greer, who was standing silently near the door, and she felt every inch of his derision toward her. “We’ll deal with that later,” he added ominously.

  “It broke through Kat’s wards,” Chris admitted, falling into a chair opposite his grandfather. He took off his hat and rubbed at the hair beneath. It was a wonder, she concluded, that the hat had stayed on throughout their harried chase.

  Wilhelm made a huffing sound and reached for a crumpled pack of cigarettes that was on the table. His gnarled fingers extracted a cigarette and stuffed it in his mouth while he patted his pants pockets. “Now, how did it manage that?” he mumbled. He found his matchbook and tore one of the cardboard matches free. He zipped it across the striking pad with an easy, practiced movement.

  “Come on, Opa,” Chris said, reaching forward and snatching the matches off the table and the cigarette from his grandfather’s mouth. “The doctor said you had to quit.” He grabbed the packet, too, for good measure, crumpling it and tossing them both into the garbage behind him. “Where’s that gum I bought you?” He pocketed the matchbook, tossing his grandfather a belligerent look.

  “I don’t like the gum,” the old man said, glaring at him. “I’m eighty-five years old. I think I’ve earned the right to do as I damn well please.” His clear blue eyes fell on Greer as she hovered by the door, wanting to be anywhere but there.

  “And you,” he said. “What are we gonna do with you?” She had to clench her fists tightly to resist turning her head from his probing gaze as his cold blue eyes roved over her face, lingering on the scars. She wondered if he recognized Kat’s handiwork.

  “Well,” he asked after a long moment, and it dawned on her that he hadn’t been asking a rhetorical question.

  “Well, what?” she asked, frowning.

  “What are you gonna do about all of this?” he asked, waving his hand toward the open door.

  “About what? The monsters?” Was he seriously suggesting that she was supposed to clean up this mess?

  “They ain’t no average monsters,” he said. He had the bullish demeanor of an old man who was accustomed to winning arguments by exhausting his opponents. Everything out of his mouth was argumentative. It made her want to throw the nearest empty box at his head. “That was a Hunter if I’ve ever seen one.”

  She frowned and glanced at Chris, but he looked as confused as she felt. “What’s a Hunter?”

  He aimed a rheumy eye at her. “Spawn of witches,” he said coldly. “Likely your ancestors, I imagine. Eaten up by magic.”

  Something in the way he said it made Greer’s blood run cold. She backed away from his stare, her back slamming against the wall. “How would you know that?” she asked.